


living for your every move

by nobirdstofly



Series: falling is one of the ways of moving [1]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Hate Adjacent, Hate Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobirdstofly/pseuds/nobirdstofly
Summary: When ballet darling Jon Favreau is injured during a show, Tommy gets a shot to be principal dancer at the country's most prestigious company, taking over for his childhood best friend. Except Jon's career isn't quite as over as everyone thought it was, and now they're co-leads in the same ballet.





	living for your every move

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [psa_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/psa_2018) collection. 



> **Prompt: Ballet Dancer!Tommy**
> 
> part one of ballet AU! for the record, I do not dance ballet. feel free to hit me up if I got something crazy wrong. work title from Troye Sivan, series title from Merce Cunningham. 
> 
> THE BIGGEST THANKS to anatomical_heart, kisatsel, and silklace for listening to me yell about this for weeks. this wouldn't have happened without all of your support!

The night Jon Favreau falls, Tommy’s in the audience. It’s the second night of the show, and Tommy had read all the glowing reviews this morning after his run, rolling his eyes over his omelette. All the critics are in love with Favreau, it’s obvious even when they try to call him out for seeming deviations from the choreo, or not having a perfect turnout.

It’s Jon’s first show as principal dancer, and while Tommy couldn’t afford opening night, he’s there for this one, and he understands the hype. Jon moves like he’s weightless, and he’s so expressive that the music and other dancers almost fade away.

Tommy’s there, as mesmerized as anyone else, when Jon suddenly falls. He’s there when the orchestra grounds to an uneven halt, the woodwinds continuing a second longer, haunting in the sudden silence. A hushed buzz starts amidst the crowd, but it’s quiet enough that when Jon immediately tries to stand up and falls again, the crack of bone echoes throughout the theatre.

It’s the first time he’s seen Jon in nearly a decade, so of course Tommy sees his tragedy. On instinct, Tommy tries to run backstage, to get to him. Security stops him before he gets anywhere close.

A week after, Tommy’s own show opens, his own debut as a principal, and even though every review is positive, they all mention Jon Favreau, too. How is career might be over, even as it was just starting. No one can shake the spectre of Jon’s fall, which is fine. Understandable, even. Every night when he walks out on stage, Tommy can’t either.

 

It’s August when the owner of Tommy’s company calls him into her office and says, out of nowhere, “You’re auditioning for a principal role at ABT. They need someone new.”

Tommy scoffs. He’s still sweating from class. “They have Favreau,” he says, not certain if that’s actually true. It’s been years since saying Jon’s name made his chest go tight, but he feels oddly defensive of him now. Word on the street is that Jon had recovered perfectly, that it was a clean break, nothing torn, and he’d been dancing for months with the help of a great physical therapist. Underneath that, in the dance community, there are whispers that his career is over.

“Are you kidding me? Favreau’s out,” the owner says. “Even if he hadn’t destroyed his ankle, you really think his ex is going to let him on that stage again?” Then, before Tommy can say a word or ask any follow-up questions: “It’s tomorrow afternoon, 2pm. Don’t be late.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Tommy feels the need to add when he’s at the door, looking back at her. “You, this company, it’s been—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says with a wry smile. “We both know you’re meant for bigger things. Ira Madison called begging for you. Knock ‘em dead, Vietor.”

 

The next day, Tommy’s hands only stop shaking once he’s dancing for Ira and his board. He performs every pirouette and arabesque and jeté perfectly, but beyond that he can’t think. He focuses on the steps and the timing, and he doesn’t see the expressions on their faces at all.

After, when Ira is clapping and smiling smugly along with his directors, and Tommy feels loose-limbed with success, a door at the back of the theatre slams open, hitting the wall with a bang.

It’s Jon Favreau, in linen shorts and a t-shirt, a scowl on his handsome face. He’s halfway to the stage when he looks up. He stumbles a little, like he’s surprised to see Tommy on it.

“What the fuck, Jon?” Ira asks.

“I’m still your principal,” Jon says, his voice deeper than the last time Tommy heard it. He lifts himself onto the stage, ignoring the hand Tommy stretches out to help him. “You have to let me try out. It’s in my contract.”

Tommy retreats to the wings as the music starts up. Jon is as graceful as Tommy remembers, from six months ago or from ten years ago, even in casual clothes and sneakers, and he doesn’t seem to be favoring his ankle at all. He still has great ballon, and his line is absurdly near-perfect.

Guess he’s not out after all, Tommy thinks, his molars grinding together as he tries not to scream.

When the accompaniment ends, Jon pants out, “See you Monday,” to Ira, grabs his bag, and storms off stage, walking past Tommy without even looking at him.  
  
Tommy showers quickly in the locker room, trying not to think bitterly about what Jon’s presence means. About how Tommy had basically been guaranteed this role before the sudden reappearance of one of the best dancers in his generation. They’ll probably still have Tommy in the ballet, certainly in the company, but there’s no way Jon doesn’t get the principal part after that performance.

He hears Jon before he sees him, these harsh, wet-sounding breaths echoing softly in the back hallway. Tommy remembers that sound, when Jon was homesick, or when he was frustrated that he couldn’t get a choreo down. When Tommy rounds the corner, Jon’s slouched against the wall, one of his legs bent in, cradling his ankle in his hands.

“Long time,” Tommy says, and judging by the way Jon startles, he didn’t hear the scuff of Tommy’s shoes.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing weakly, wiping at his face before looking up. The tear tracks are obvious, his face red and mottled. He’s still infuriatingly good looking.

“You need to get up,” Tommy says. “Like, now. They’re going to leave this way, and if they see you like this…”

“I know,” Jon bites out. “Don’t you think I know? I didn’t fucking plan—”

A door slams from far off, and Tommy can hear Ira’s booming laugh.

“Can you walk?” Tommy says.

“Of course I can walk.”

“Sure,” Tommy says, easy. “That’s why you’re on the floor.”

Jon glares at him, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t try to get up and prove Tommy wrong.

“Come on,” Tommy says, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before throwing Jon’s bag over his shoulder with his own and hauling Jon to his feet.

Grumbling, Jon throws his arm around Tommy’s shoulders and lets Tommy take most of his weight. He’s not light, no matter how much muscle mass he’s lost on account of his injury, and Tommy’s pace is slowed by Jon hobbling along beside him.

“This isn’t working, come here,” Tommy says, scooping Jon up into his arms. He probably should have gone for a fireman’s lift, but it’s satisfying to see the appalled look on Jon’s face when he’s clutching at Tommy’s neck, secure in a bridal carry.

“What the fuck?” Jon hisses. “Why are you helping me?”

“I have no idea,” Tommy says honestly, “since you’ve been a total dick to me.”

“I have a lot going on,” is all Jon offers, which isn’t even close to an apology.

“Can’t believe you’d fucking waltz back in here and pretend you’re healed—”

“I _am_ healed. This is just a temporary setback!”

“—and steal the role from some of us who were counting on it.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Ira’s still going to give you a contract. He's not that much of an asshole, and you’re good. You’ll still get to dance for the best company in America. Besides, you might get the part over me.”

Tommy scoffs and shoulders his way outside, blinking against the sun. He grudgingly makes sure not to bang any of Jon against the doorframe.

“Just leave me here, I can make it to the curb and get a cab,” Jon says, not looking at him.

Tommy does as asked, but he carries Jon bag for him on the short walk. As Tommy starts to walk toward the train stop, Jon’s voice stops him.

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing.”

Tommy turns to face him. “What?”

“If you were me, tell me you wouldn’t have done the same fucking thing today.”

Tommy walks away without replying. He can’t tell Jon that — he’s right. Tommy would do anything to keep dancing.

Ira calls later, enthusiasm in his voice. Tommy got the part, and Jon got another. They’re set to be co-leads in the same ballet.

“You already know each other anyway, right?” Ira says. “Came up together, or whatever?”

“Sort of,” Tommy says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Great! I figure, where can we go wrong sending two hot men out on the stage?”

“Great,” Tommy echoes, hollowly, thinking of how Jon couldn’t even put weight on his foot when Tommy left him outside the studio. Thinking of how if Jon _can_ dance, he’ll leave Tommy in the dust without even trying.

It should be the most relaxing weekend Tommy’s hand in years. He’s between companies, he doesn’t have class, and he can actually relax for more than a single day off. He spends too much of it running and swimming laps. He tries to go to a museum, but he’s too anxious to pay attention to any of the exhibits and leaves after thirty minutes to hit the gym again.

  
  
Class starts at 9am on Tuesday, which is more than enough time for him to calm down, and then to feel sick all over again when he arrives. It’s not because Jon is already there, stretching in a corner. It’s because Dan Pfeiffer is there. Dan Pfeiffer, who’s the closest thing to a living idol Tommy has.

Dan’s only a few years older than him, but he broke out young and was the star of the American Ballet Theatre by the time he was twenty-two. Until Jon came along, Dan was the only male dancer anyone in the city talked about. And by the time Jon was making his appearance, he was inextricably tied to Dan. They danced together for years, with a synchronicity and passion that had everyone in their community convinced they were, well, fucking.

Which made all the more sense when they suddenly stopped partnering as Jon’s star rose. Dan’s early retirement had been the final nail in their partnership, or so it seemed, especially when Dan accepted a position at the Bolshoi in Moscow for a year. Dan disappeared into the night, and Jon opened his first show as principal, only to fall on stage in front of a sold-out crowd.

Now Dan’s back at ABT, apparently choreographing their main ballet for the season, something Ira had neglected to mention. Dan probably won’t be at most of their classes after today, but —

“I want to get a sense of what I’m working with,” Dan says warmly, smiling at all of them before he takes a seat near the pianist, Elijah. “So let’s see what you’ve got.”

Their instructor is Kara Brown, a formidable dancer in her own right. Tommy hadn’t recognized her at his audition, too focused and nervous by half, but she holds a seat on the company’s board, too. She’s tough but sensible, and she runs them through their paces for a solid ninety minutes.

Tommy’s never been more thankful to zone out and go through the motions that have been drilled into him for almost two decades as he is now. He’s able to forget Dan watching him, forget to worry about whether or not Jon will stay on his feet. Forget everything but the music and the steps Kara calls. It’s freeing, the way it’s always been.

After, when Tommy’s sweating and aching in the best way, chugging water as he stretches on the floor, Dan approaches him with a hearty shoulder pat.

“That was good,” Dan says, smile in his clear eyes. “Ira said you were awesome, and he wasn’t wrong. I’m glad we stole you.”

Tommy manages to say, “Thank you,” and hopes it doesn’t sound as sickeningly sincere and breathless to everyone else as it sounds to him. Judging by Dan’s chuckle and Jon’s eyeroll, it does.

Dan turns to Jon. “Nice to see you, Favs. How’s the ankle?”

“It’s fine,” Jon says evenly, his mouth a flat line.

“Good. I’m talking to Lovett about it, too,” Dan says. “You can’t both lie to me this whole season.”

Jon forces a smile, and even Tommy can tell it’s fake. “Sounds great.”

“Speak of the devil!” Dan shouts, voice booming. He’s turned to look at the door, so Tommy does, too. There’s a rumpled looking guy standing there, in athletic shorts and an askew t-shirt.

He waves Dan off. “Yeah, yeah. He appears, et cetera. Vietor!” he says, looking straight at Tommy. “Clean up and then come see me. We’ve got an appointment.”

“You’re the physical therapist?” Tommy asks, gathering up his stuff.

“No need to sound so surprised.”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t,” Tommy says, but Lovett’s already turned on his heel.

“See you at eleven!” he calls, without looking. Jon’s trying not to laugh when Tommy turns back.

Dan shrugs. “Yeah, he does that. Don’t be late or he’ll be even louder than usual.”

Lovett’s office is spacious, and there’s another dancer Tommy vaguely recognizes from rehearsal already there, feet in an ice bath. Lovett’s sitting cross-legged on an examination table, only now he’s wearing glasses, reading over what’s presumably Tommy’s file.

“So,” he starts, without looking up. “You’re in ridiculous shape, even for a dancer. No major injuries for the last five years. Hip bothers you sometimes which you see a chiropractor for, and you have a standing appointment with a masseuse.” Lovett nods and then finally looks up. “And you used to know Jon.”

It’s been ten years, but something in Tommy wants to protest _used_ to anyway. “Yeah,” Tommy says. “We went to school together.”

“Before you went to Joffrey in Chicago, and he came here,” Lovett says, watching him closely.

“Yup,” Tommy says. Something about Lovett is setting his teeth on edge. “Thanks for the walk down memory lane.”

“Hmm,” Lovett says, looking back at the file. He flips through a couple pages, but Tommy knows there’s nothing interesting there. “The real question,” Lovett continues, and Tommy braces himself. What does Lovett know? What could he possibly ask? Would Jon have told him about the last time they saw each as kids? About when Tommy had ruined everything?

“How many embarrassing pictures do you have of teenaged Jon?”

Tommy laughs in spite of himself. Lovett’s smiling slyly when he says, “Come on, share the wealth! He admitted to having a buzz cut back then, and I just can’t even imagine it.”

“Sorry, man,” Tommy says. “Blood oath of secrecy and all.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a loyal asshole, too. If you ever feel like changing your mind, I’ll be here. Or if you, you know, break an arm, have a bone spur, that sort of thing.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tommy says, and he lets Lovett run him through a series of stretches and reflex tests and the like. As Tommy’s getting ready to go, he asks, “So, what’s your story?”

“Huh?” Lovett asks. He’s packing up his stuff, ready for lunch.

“You know mine, so how’d you end up here?”

“I, uh, well.” Lovett laughs a little. “I was a dancer, like you. I was good, very good, actually. Like you. And I retired at twenty.”

“Injury?” Tommy assumes.

Lovett shakes his head. “No. I love dancing, I do. But not that much. Not enough to give up everything else for it.”

Tommy doesn’t get it, not really, but he nods anyway. “It’s definitely not easy,” he agrees instead. “Good on you, for getting out.”  
  
  
  
Tommy throws himself into the work just as much as he always has, and the routine is grounding. He gets up early, goes to the gym, comes home to shower and eat, has classes with the other corps members all day, comes back home to eat and ice his muscles, goes to sleep, and then gets up to do it all again. An endless repetition of hard, fulfilling work that makes him feel less lonely when he’s sitting on his couch with his feet in a bucket of ice water while he flips back and forth between MSNBC and CNN every night.

They start show rehearsals on Tommy’s third week, later than he’s used to.

“I had to work some things out,” Dan explains, his hands spread before him. “Thanks to someone deciding we’d have more than one lead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ira says from where he’s leaning against the mirrored wall behind Dan. “I keep you on your toes, old man.”

Dan sighs, performatively loud, and Tommy laughs along with the other dancers. He even catches Jon’s mouth twitching at the corner.

“You two,” Dan says, pointing at Tommy and Jon, “will be dancing in synch with the corps at first, and then you’ll accelerate throughout the first act. So by intermission, one of you will be three counts ahead, and the other two.”

“Won’t that look messy?” Jon asks, voicing Tommy’s unspoken concern.

Dan smiles blandly. “Not if you do it right. And besides, it’s supposed to. A little. In the second act, you’ll both have your own, distinct solos, completely broken from one another, before you come back together to end with a big pas de deux.”

Ira claps his hands together. “Any questions?”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he watches Jon shift uneasily on his feet. It’s a tall order, for both of them to be asynchronous from the corps and each other, but still dancing the same steps. If it’s done right, it’ll have a waterfall effect. If not, it’ll be incomprehensible.

Not to mention he hasn’t actually danced _with_ Jon yet. He has no idea if they have any kind of compatibility. Beyond Tommy saving Jon’s ass, they’ve barely exchanged more than a nod or an “excuse me” if they pass each other on the way into the locker room. Tommy could dance with Jon when they were teenagers, but he has no idea if they can do it now.

“Alright,” Dan says. “Let’s get started.”

They set out learning the basic choreo first, the steps that they’ll all need to know, and the ones that Jon and Tommy will have to do at nearly double time in the future. The way Dan’s arranged the steps feels fresh, and Tommy knows it’ll look visceral on stage. It’s more raw than he’s used to, and if Dan tells him to drop his shoulders one more time, he might punch a mirror.

He doesn’t have it half as bad as Jon, though. Dan’s being kinder to Tommy, since they’re still relative strangers, but by the second week of afternoon rehearsals, Tommy would swear he can feel Jon’s anger in the room. Dan analyzes and dismantles every move both of them make, but he’s _brutal_ to Jon. Almost like he’s trying to push him to break.

Dan’s worried, Tommy realizes distantly, over the pain in his feet and his entire body. He’s worried that Jon’s not healed, that Jon can’t do this. Every time he says, “Jesus, watch your turn-out, Favs,” or, “What the fuck are your hands doing right now,” it’s because he’s worried _for_ Jon, not about his skills.

When Jon hesitates a split second before agreeing to add a lift of one of the corps dancers into his solo, Dan snaps for real.

“I need to know whether or you not you can do a fucking lift, Jon.” It’s the first time Dan’s called him by his given name since rehearsals started, and Tommy sees the tips of Jon’s ears go red as he stares determinedly at the floor. The room is silent around them. “Go to the wall,” Dan continues. “You’re sitting out rehearsals until you can be fucking honest with me.”

Jon lifts his head, glaring at Dan, but he doesn’t say a word. With his jaw clenched, he stalks over to an empty chair against the mirror and drops into it. Tommy raises his eyebrows, but Jon doesn’t even look at him.

“From the top!” Dan yells. He gestures to his assistant choreographer. “Virtel, get up here. Take Favreau’s spot so Tommy has something to work off of.”

It’s weird to work through the first act without Jon dancing at his side, even after only a dozen rehearsals. It’s weird to have Louis as a partner beside him, even though he’s technically perfect. It’s much easier to match his steps, a full count behind, to Louis’s. Tommy is annoyed that he misses Jon’s small mistakes that manage to seem like graceful improvisation. The ones that keep Tommy struggling to keep up.

At the end of the class, Dan pounds him on the back and says, “Excellent work, Tommy! That was great, keep it up. Don’t let this spoilsport,” he hooks a thumb at Jon in an endearingly dorky gesture, “fuck you up.”

Tommy’s the last dancer, besides Jon, to leave, and he’s barely out the door when he hears Dan hiss, “What the fuck, Jon?”

Tommy can’t hear what Jon replies, he’s speaking too low, but he can make out Dan saying, “You have to relax, and you have to trust me. Jesus, can you— listen. Do whatever you need to do, but I want to see a fucking change in you tomorrow or I’m talking to Ira.”

Tommy thought he’d feel more smug than he does, to get to experience Jon getting dressed down like this, but it’s actually kind of terrible. He understands how defeated Jon is, how scared he must be that his career is probably over. He understands why Jon is resisting so hard, and he gets why Dan’s pushing him to be truthful. It’s dangerous, for Jon to lie about this.

Tommy hasn’t found him on the ground since audition day, but that doesn’t mean Jon’s not suffering where Tommy can’t see it. Lovett stops by a couple times a week to watch classes, always late, always in sweatpants, and when he’s not frowning at his phone, he’s frowning at Jon.  
  
Tommy’s hip is twinging again after he showers and changes, so he drops by Lovett’s office on his way out.

“Took you long enough,” Lovett says by way of greeting, pushing Tommy to lie down on one of the tables. “I thought you’d be here by Tuesday at the latest.”

“Hasn’t been bothering me,” Tommy lies, and Lovett does him the favor of only rolling his eyes.

“Fucking dancers. Come on, get on your side,” Lovett says, getting his hand on Tommy’s knee to test the rotation of his hip.

He lets Lovett stretch and push at his leg for a few minutes of silence — well, relative silence, Lovett keeps mumbling to himself. He waits until Lovett is looking away, jotting down a note in Tommy’s file to say, “So what’s going on with—”

“Don’t,” Lovett says simply. “Don’t ask that. I’ll cite doctor-patient confidentiality, or whatever.”

Tommy laughs shortly. “Fine. Then is it true they used to, uh, date? Jon and Dan, I mean?”

Lovett clenches his jaw for a second before relaxing it. “Dan would never put on a show without Jon,” he says, which isn’t an answer.  
  
“But they’re— didn’t they?”

“Listen, I’m not here to gossip, but those two will always be close. You can’t dance with someone like that, for that long, and not be.” Lovett sounds almost wistful, and Tommy feels a pang that Lovett never got that, in his short-lived career.

Tommy hasn’t had it either, that kind of intense, long-term relationship dancers experience when they have the same partner for years. He never envisioned that, for himself. He’s always dreamed of himself alone on stage, for whatever reason. It’s not — he’s not a _prima_ , or anything, he just. He can’t imagine sharing that feeling with any one person.

He’s shared the joy of bowing to tumultuous applause with the corps, and with other principals and soloists, but never with a partner. He thinks of Jon, dancing with Dan when he was fresh out of the academy, some kind of wunderkind. He thinks of Jon practicing with _him_ when Jon was all of seventeen, begging Tommy to go through the steps again so Jon could copy him. Maybe Jon was always too young and too talented to tie his rising star to Dan’s, or to anyone’s.

“All to say,” Lovett continues, stepping back so Tommy can stand up, “Jon’s my friend. If I knew something about a torrid affair with his ex-partner, do you really think I’d clue you in?”

“I’m not sure,” Tommy says. “But yeah, I think you might, if you thought it could hurt him.”

Lovett’s mouth twists. “Whatever. I’d tell you to stay off your feet for a few days, but I know your type, so just add your hip to your insane icing routine, I guess.”

“I don’t have an insane—”

Lovett fixes him with a look. “Trust me, I know all about the secret ice packs in your freezer. Even if I hadn’t ‘been there, done that,’ I’ve seen Jon’s collection.”

“Ha,” Jon says dryly from the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He looks angry still, his face drawn. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s holding his sides, shrunken in, his biceps bulging beneath the sleeves of his thin t-shirt. It’s the same white v-neck he was wearing in class, the one that was soaked through from sweat before Dan made him sit down.

Tommy leans down to grab his bag. When he straightens, Jon’s looking at him, but he looks away as soon as he sees Tommy looking back.

“Have a good night,” Tommy says, with a little wave to them both. Lovett returns it and even Jon tips his chin up in acknowledgement.

“What’s your deal?” Lovett’s asking Jon as Tommy walks away.  
  
Tommy goes to the gym and swims laps until he feels tired enough to sleep, then goes home only to wake up in the middle of the night on his couch surrounded by warm ice packs and the 24-hour news cycle blissfully playing on mute.

He manages to get a few more hours of sleep before someone buzzes his apartment while he’s doing pushups in his small living room, the coffee table pushed off to the side.

“Yeah?” he says into the speaker, not bothering to disguise the gruffness in his voice. It’s probably someone with the wrong apartment number, or someone trying to get into the building because their friend’s button is broken.

“Tommy? Hey, it’s, uh. It’s Jon. Favreau.” Even staticky through the old intercom system, Jon’s voice is recognizable. It always will be.

“The fuck?” Tommy mumbles to himself, but he buzzes Jon in anyway. He considers finding a shirt, but Jon’s intruding on his space. He can deal with Tommy’s naked chest. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before, even if Tommy’s made some vast improvements since the academy. If there’s a part of him that wants Jon to see him like this, in only his sweatpants, muscles slick and on display from his morning workout, well. Only Tommy needs to know.

Jon’s knock is quick but tentative, his knuckles barely brushing the wood of the door, but he shoulders past Tommy into the room as soon as he opens it.

“Good morning,” Tommy says, like this is a totally normal occurrence.

Jon stops short, like he just realized Tommy’s shirtlessness. His eyes rove over his chest, his shoulders, his abs, if Tommy’s not mistaken. “Well,” Jon says, “that’ll make this easier. Where’s your bed?”

Tommy feels his mouth drop open, but he gestures behind him, to the short hallway that leads to his bedroom. Jon sets out for it without another word.

“What’re you—” Tommy says, and grabs Jon by the shoulder, yanking him back. “What’re you _doing_?”

“I know I’ve been kind of an asshole,” Jon says, but before Tommy can agree he continues, “but we both want this, I know we do, and I need to— to relax. So you’re going to, uh. Do you want to? I want you to.”

“To _what_?” Tommy feels a million steps behind, which never happens to him. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Jon swallows, his throat moving with it, and squares his shoulders, looking Tommy dead in the eye. “You’re going to fuck me.”

“We have class in an hour,” Tommy says faintly.

“Stop wasting time, then,” Jon says, walking toward Tommy’s bedroom again, peeling off his hoodie as he goes.

“Is this because Dan said you needed to—” Tommy asks, breathless, after Jon’s shoved him down onto his own bed.

“Don’t talk about Dan right now,” Jon says, tugging at Tommy’s sweatpants until he can pull them off. He wraps a hand around Tommy’s hardening cock as soon as it’s free, breathes out, “Fuck yeah. I’d always hoped, you know?”

“Hoped what?” Tommy chokes out, hips jerking into Jon’s hand.

Jon smirks, his mouth pulling to one side. “That your dick was as big as it looked in your leotard.”

“Jesus, you can’t—” Tommy starts, and then stops himself when Jon leans down to mouth at the head, his hand still working.

Jon pulls off, standing up to shed his own clothes, then climbs back on top of Tommy, losing some of his gracefulness. “Condom?” he asks, his eyes dark. He’s biting his bottom lip, and Tommy — Tommy wants to do that for him. “I wouldn’t, I mean. I know you’re— you know. I trust you, but. We have class, so—”

“Are you apologizing for wanting to use a _condom_?” Tommy asks, askance, even as he reaches for his nightstand. He feels faint.

“No, it’s just,” Jon says, taking it from Tommy’s hand. “Never mind.” He rips it opens with his teeth before he starts rolling it onto Tommy’s cock.

Tommy tries to stay still, to not move into Jon’s touch. “Lube?” he asks, holding up the bottle.

“It’s fine,” Jon says, and before Tommy can stop him, he’s up on his knees and holding Tommy’s cock at the ready, already sinking down.

“Fuck!” Tommy cries out, throwing his head back. Jon’s so, so tight. Not as tight as he could be, he’s definitely prepped, which. “Jon, did you—?”

“Before I came over,” Jon says, his hands on Tommy’s chest, panting as he eases himself down, inch by inch. “At home, I was trying— _fuck_. Trying to, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t, god, yeah, can you—?”

So Tommy does, rolling his hips up again to watch the way that Jon’s eyes flutter closed. Feel how Jon’s fingers curl into fists on his chest before spreading back out to palm at his pecs. Tommy feels like an idiot, just staring up at him, but he can’t get past, _I was at home_ , and, _it wasn’t enough_. Jon needed this bad enough to come to Tommy, of all people, at 8am. Was willing to slide onto his dick without preamble, to get his fix.

Tommy’s still not sure if he likes this Jon, older Jon, but he likes the way he looks well enough, likes the way he can use every carefully trained muscle in his body to slowly lift himself up and down until he’s fully seated on Tommy’s cock. He pauses there for a second, like he’s trying to catch his breath.

“What is this?” Tommy asks, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jon says, opening his eyes and fixing Tommy with a disbelieving stare.

“To be honest? Not rea—”

“Shut up. Just shut up and— and fuck me.”

And that, that Tommy can do. Tommy can wrap his hands around Jon’s narrow hips and encourage the way he’s moving, help him lift up and slam back down, his pace quickening as he leans more of his weight on Tommy’s chest.

“This is your way of relaxing?” Tommy says, gasping as Jon clenches around him.

“I thought I said shut up.” Jon’s moving in earnest, his eyes half-closed, sweat beading on his face and chest. “Can’t you just, _god_ yeah, enjoy this?”

Tommy laughs without meaning to. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

He drags his hands down from Jon’s hips, clutching at Jon’s thighs before sliding them around to the back, gripping just under Jon’s ass. He can feel the strength in Jon’s legs, all the thick, corded muscle built over years of training. Can see how his thighs flex every time he rises up and comes back, how his abs and biceps clench with the strength he’s using to hold himself up.

Tommy’s slept with dancers before, of course, and other athletes besides, but he’s still always fascinated by the play of musculature, the way someone knows how to utilize their strength so well and so precisely. It’s kind of mind-blowingly hot, even when it’s someone like Jon. Jon, who’s clearly only using him for his cock.

That’s fine, Tommy thinks, tightening his grip so he can thrust up into Jon, watching the way Jon’s head lolls forward as he groans. Jon can have this, Tommy’s not going to say no. He might not like Jon, but he’s not stupid. Jon’s hot and it’s been awhile, for Tommy. Sure they’re both going to be sore all day — Jon more so — and sure it’s going to make rehearsal awkward, but how much more awkward could it get, really?

“I’m close,” Jon gasps out, wrapping a hand around his own cock.

Normally, Tommy would bat a lover’s hand away and replace it with his own, but he doesn’t, now. He’ll let Jon work for this, hips jerking between Tommy’s cock and his own hand, like he can’t decide which feeling is better.

“Are you?” Jon asks, looking at him, licking his lips and swaying forward a little, almost like he wants to kiss Tommy.

“Yeah,” Tommy grunts out, and he uses his grip on Jon’s ass to encourage him to rise up a little more, so Tommy can thrust up into him better.

Jon falls forward with a cry, bracing himself on one hand by Tommy’s head, the other still on his cock, and Tommy tries to keep the same angle. He wants to hear Jon make that sound again. Wants to watch Jon fall apart like this, the worry lines in his beautiful face all smoothed out.

“I’m—” Jon says, and then he does, spurting all over his own fist and beyond, come hot where it lands on Tommy’s belly.

It doesn’t take long for Tommy to follow him, thrusting up into Jon only a handful more times, pulling down Jon’s hips to his before holding him there, close and tight, as Tommy comes. Tommy thinks of Jon saying _I wouldn’t, I mean_ , when he asked Tommy for a condom. Thinks of what it would be like if he’d come inside Jon like this, if Jon would have had time to shower before class, or if he would’ve been a mess all day, come leaking out of him while he went through positions.

“Fuck,” Jon says, sounding winded. Tommy’s still catching his breath, so he can’t really judge. Jon wipes his hand on Tommy’s sheets. “That was— thanks.”

Then Jon’s hands are on his, easing Tommy’s fingers away from his body, and lifting off Tommy’s softening cock so fast they both wince. Tommy sits up, still hazy, trying not to feel totally on display, naked and with a condom still on while Jon’s pulling on his pants.

“See you in class,” Jon says over his shoulder when he’s dressed, and then he’s gone from the room. Tommy hears his front door open and close, and then his apartment’s silent. If not for the ache in Tommy’s muscles and Jon’s come still on his stomach, it’d be like Jon was never even there.

“Fuck,” Tommy says to his empty room, letting himself flop back on the bed.  
  
  
  
He barely makes it to class on time, but he’s not surprised to see Jon already there, stretching into splits at the front of the room. Tommy can’t help watching him, trying to see if he shows any discomfort. Jon doesn’t look back at him at all.

Morning classes are a blur, thanks to Tommy being so distracted, and if he half-heartedly imagines taking Jon to lunch before rehearsal, no one has to know. Jon’s the first out the door when they’re done, anyway, and nowhere to be found in the rush of dancers making for the locker rooms and out onto the streets. Tommy eats alone at the deli three blocks over, burning his tongue when he doesn’t let his soup cool for long enough.

Dan is there for rehearsal that afternoon again, watching Jon expectantly. “Well?” he says, before they even start. It’s only the three of them and the accompanist today, the rest of the corps free to practice their own steps with Louis.

Jon looks nervous, rubbing at his chest. “I can’t lift anyone. Not safely.”

“Great,” Dan says, and it sounds like he means it. “Thank you.” He points at Tommy. “You can, though.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, even though it wasn’t a question.

“Do you think you can lift him?” Dan asks, tilting his head toward Jon.

Tommy feels himself going red, thinking about picking Jon up in a bridal carry the day he auditioned, or just this morning, when he lifted Jon by his hips in bed. Tommy swallows and nods. “Yeah, probably.”  
  
Jon’s glaring at the floor when Tommy looks over, his arms crossed over his stomach. Tommy can see the clench of his jaw, the thin line of his mouth. He’s angry, all at once, that Jon’s angry.

Tommy would understand him being mad that he’s injured, even if he’s choosing to be here now, pushing himself too fast and too far. Instead, it’s like he’s angry that Tommy’s perfectly capable of lifting people, something that’s totally expected in their profession.

Dan claps once, and it startles both of them to attention. “Great! I’ve been playing with the idea of incorporating a series of lifts into the adagio portion of your pas de deux, and it’ll be more impactful with just the two of you. Let me see a straight lift?”

“Now?” Tommy’s grateful his voice doesn’t crack, even if Jon looks over at him like it does. Tommy keeps his eyes on Dan, trying not to think about about his hands on Jon again.

Dan raises his eyebrows. “Now would be preferable, since that’s what we’re here for.”

“Come on,” Jon says, walking over to Tommy and turning his back. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He’s wearing a henley today, the long sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It’s black, so Tommy can’t see that it’s sticking to his skin, but he can feel it when he settles his hands on Jon’s waist. Just like he can feel Jon breathing, his ribs expanding.

“I don’t have all day,” Jon says, his voice snippy, and Tommy can’t help the way his hands tighten minutely on Jon’s sides.

“You have until I say you have,” Dan snaps back. “Tommy, come on.”

Jon’s heavier than the female partners Tommy’s had, but more than that, he’s clearly not used to being lifted. He doesn’t hold himself still enough, and there’s conversely too much tension in his body. Tommy gets him off the ground, but it’s wobbly. He’s bringing Jon down again all too quickly, afraid he’s going to drop him.

“Well,” Dan says. “That’ll need some practice.”

Tommy’s always found that lifts lower to the ground are harder than higher ones, so thankfully the presage goes better, even if he still can’t help but think about how awkward it is, his hand firm on Jon’s waist and supporting his thigh. Tommy’s never felt like this, lifting another dancer. He feels like he’s infringing on Jon’s privacy, or something, touching him like this. He wants to let his hands slip, wants to slide them up under the fabric of Jon’s shirt to palm at his damp skin, wants to —

He feels like a creep, eager for any chance to get his hands all over Jon’s body. Again. Jon’s flushed all down the gaping collar of his shirt, but Tommy doesn’t know if it’s from the workout or if he’s as affected as Tommy is. If he’s thinking about this morning, too.

“Not… terrible,” Dan concedes, after what must be the dozenth time they’ve performed some kind of complicated lift in the last hour. “You’ll be practicing those. Three times a week, in the morning. I’ll talk to Kara about you missing classes.”

“She’ll love that,” Jon says dryly, and Tommy can’t help it. He laughs, the sound bubbling out of him. Jon looks surprised, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“She’ll deal,” Dan says. “I need you both to be able to do those in your sleep. Let’s run through the first act steps before we call it a day.”

Tommy’s water bottle is empty by the time they leave, and he’s never been less shocked. They’re both drenched in sweat, and, thanks to the mirrored walls, Tommy knows he’s bright pink, too.

“So, tomorrow morning?” Jon asks as they walk to the locker room.

For a wild moment, Tommy thinks he’s referring to their encounter _this_ morning. That Jon wants a repeat tomorrow.

“Dan said three times a week,” Jon continues, while Tommy just stares at him like an idiot. “Figured it’d be easier to do every other day.”

“Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday,” Tommy says, his mouth still so dry from class. “Sure, makes sense.”

Jon nods and turns away, already headed toward the showers. Tommy chooses a stall as far from him as possible and doesn’t think about how he knows what Jon looks like naked now. Doesn’t think about how the water would cascade down his tanned and toned body.

Tommy squeezes the base of his cock hard, discouraging his building erection, and doesn’t wonder if he’ll get another surprise visit tomorrow morning.  
  
  
  
No one shows up at his door the next morning, and Jon is already in the hall outside their normal classroom when Tommy gets there. He smiles at Tommy, just the slightest tic, and Tommy tries not to read too much into it, but he takes it as a good sign. This won’t be easy — the choreo’s challenging and the lifts are a bitch, but Jon seems to be opening up to him a little. Maybe they can start talking again, at least, Tommy thinks. Maybe they can be friends again, even if Tommy never gets another chance to fuck him.

Jon keeps showing up to practice every morning and not to Tommy’s door, and Tommy thinks it’s a one time thing for a solid two weeks. He and Jon improve, clear from the growing ease in their movements that Jon’s starting to trust Tommy to not drop him on his face. They continue that way, killing themselves to be prepare for afternoon rehearsals, when Dan stops by one morning.

“Not bad,” he says, startling them both.

Tommy manages to stay in place, but Jon flinches, rocking dangerously in Tommy’s one-handed hold. Tommy catches him as he comes crashing down, both of them stumbling when Jon shoves him away.

“You’ve gotta be ready for anything, but stop acting like a bomb’s gonna go off,” Dan says. “This can’t look studied. You know that.”

Jon’s head is bowed, but his words are clipped as he says, “Yeah, I fucking know.”

“The corps are almost ready for you guys to rejoin, and I need you ready first.”

“Got it,” Jon says.

“Tommy’s not the problem here,” Dan adds as he leaves, and Tommy can see the tendons straining in Jon’s forearms below his pushed up sleeves from clenching his fists.

“Asshole,” Tommy says, nodding toward the door.

“He’s right,” Jon argues. “He’s always fucking right.”

“I’m sure he’s not always right.” It feels weird to say it about his idol, but statistically Dan can’t be, right? Tommy’s not being that disrespectful.

“Whatever.” Jon’s arm’s are crossed over his body. “Are we good here for today? I’m going to be useless for you now anyway.”

“Sure,” Tommy says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Jon stalks from the room.  
  
  
  
Toward the end of rehearsal that evening, Jon says, in an undertone too low for any of the other dancers to hear, “Can I come over tonight? Do you have plans?”

Tommy thinks of making something up so he looks cool or at least not like a total hermit. Instead, he shakes his head. “No, no plans.”

“Cool,” Jon says, and then turns back to the front, ready for his next arabesque.

Tommy’s expecting Jon to come over later, probably late enough that Tommy will be annoyed by it, but instead he’s waiting for Tommy when he emerges, freshly showered, from the building.

“Hey,” Tommy says, feeling stupid.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”

“What are you _doing_?” Tommy asks, once they’re on the subway, and the only thing they’ve talked about is rehearsal in stilted tones.

Jon ducks his head, and, for once, he looks like the shy, 17-year-old kid Tommy remembers. There are spots of color in his cheeks as he says, “I thought we could, you know. Again.” He looks up at Tommy, his eyes guarded, like he thinks Tommy’s going to say no. Like anyone’s ever said no to him in his life.

“Yes,” Tommy says, then, “I mean, yeah, sure. That’s— that’s cool.”

“That’s cool,” Jon repeats, deadpan, looking sideways at Tommy with the hint of a smirk, all his hesitation evaporated.

“Shut up.” Tommy laughs and shoves him with his shoulder, hard enough that Jon sways with the movement of the train and has to reach out to grab one of the straps. He’s half bent over with laughter, his whole body shaking, his face lit up with it when he catches his breath, still smiling at Tommy.

Tommy feels warm all over, his face flushing, watching Jon. This is how it used to be, when they were at the academy, when they used to make each other laugh well into the night when they were already supposed to be in bed, hiding out in the stairwell talking for hours, or up on the roof watching the scant stars and sharing a cigarette that Tommy stole from his asshole roommate.

“What is it?” Jon asks, his smile fading, and Tommy realizes he’s been staring too long. He looks away.

“Nothing,” he says. “My stop’s next.”

They’re quiet as Tommy leads the way to his apartment, and when he lets Jon in, he can’t help but push him back against the front door, watching his dark eyes for a second before leaning in. Before their lips connect, Jon turns his head away, so Tommy’s mouth brushes along his cheek.

Tommy stays there, breathing heavy, and part of him wants to slap his hand into the door by Jon’s head. He grits his teeth and pushes himself back, his hands on the door and not on Jon.

“Come on, man. That’s not what...“ Jon says, trailing off as he shrugs, his eyes sliding away.

Tommy fills in the blank for Jon in his head. _That’s not what this is_ , or, _That’s not what I want_.

“Fine,” he bites out, and turns around, knowing Jon’s going to follow him.

They undress without looking at each other, and the air in the room feels charged. Tommy lies down and fists his own cock, meanly pleased that Jon’s watching him with his mouth hanging open a little. Jon’s hard, his cock curving up toward his perfect abs. Tommy wants to suck him off, wants to get his hands and his mouth all over him, but that’s not what they’re here for.

He rolls and grabs a condom and lube from his nightstand. “Do you want to do this yourself, or...?”

Jon clamps his mouth shut, walking stiffly to the bed. “I— yeah, I can. Whatever.” He takes the bottle from Tommy’s hand, and Tommy tries not to feel disappointed.

He works himself open quick, faster than Tommy would. Wasting no time until he’s twisting three fingers into his body, his head tipped back, not looking at Tommy. Tommy doesn’t pretend he’s not watching. It’s fucking hot, and if he gets to see this, he’s going to commit it to memory.

“Okay, okay,” Jon gasps out, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on Tommy’s sheets. He makes a face when he sees Tommy rolling on a condom, but he doesn’t say anything this time. Then he’s shoving Tommy onto his back, clambering over his hips until he’s snug in his lap, holding Tommy’s cock and just staring down at him.

“Well,” Tommy says, trying to school his face into a disinterested smirk when in reality he feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t get inside Jon this second. “Go on then.”

“I am,” Jon says, but his voice breaks on the second word as he pushes himself down. His head drops forward, chin to chest, as he keeps going, his hands trembling on his own straining thighs.

Tommy folds his arms behind his head. If Jon wants to do all the work, he’s not going to complain. Plus it’ll stop him from doing something dumb, like pulling Jon down into a kiss.

“Fuck,” Jon breathes, when he’s fully seated. It takes him a few tries, working himself up and down in little movements. “You’re so— god, come on.”

“Thought this was what you wanted,” Tommy says. “Just a dick to sit on, right?”

Jon scowls at him and then pushes himself up fast, and back down _hard_ , hard enough that they both groan.

“Jesus,” Tommy says, an unattractive grunt of a sound. “It is, isn’t it? This is your way of, what, relaxing?”

“Shut up, I thought we—” Jon breaks off in a moan, moving faster now. “Thought we went over this last time.”

“You just need to get fucked, is that it?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, and Tommy knows he’s being sarcastic, but it doesn’t make it feel less true. “Yeah, that’s all I—”

Tommy’s hands are on Jon’s hips before he realizes it, a vice grip as he pushes Jon off him. Jon yelps, but Tommy ignores him. He’s angry, that Jon will let him have this, but not anything else. He shoves Jon onto the bed, on his belly, and then tugs his hips back, getting him on all fours, pressing up close behind him so his cock rubs against Jon’s ass.

“If you want to get fucked, then fine,” Tommy says, his voice so rough it’s almost unfamiliar to him.

“Yes,” Jon says on a whine, rocking back on his hands. “Yes, yeah— _please_ , Tommy.”  
  
Tommy has to take a minute to catch his breath, looking at the long, strong line of Jon’s back. Then he watches the way Jon’s muscles ripple as he adjusts while Tommy lines up and pushes inside him, anything but slow. Jon’s arms are shaking, and Tommy wants him to give up already.

He fucks Jon with hard, punishing strokes, just measured enough that Jon pushes back for it, impatient. Like it’s not torture for Tommy to go this slow, too. “You just, what?” Tommy asks. “Wanted a dick? Needed to be filled up?”

“Shut. Up,” Jon grits out around a groan. He reaches for his cock, but Tommy knocks his hand away.

“Nah,” Tommy says, “you’ll come when I say.”

“Fuck you,” Jon spits out, but he keeps his hands on the bed this time.

“It is, isn’t it? You just wanted someone to do this to you. Did it even need to be me? You just needed somebody to come in you, huh?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon says, “just call me a slut if you’re going to.”

Tommy slows down, stricken for some reason he can’t figure out. “I wasn’t— Jon, I wouldn’t—”

“Then shut the hell up and fuck me, you asshole,” Jon says, pushing back onto Tommy’s cock, making Tommy’s hands tighten on his hips.

He goes faster then, not bothering to draw it out, giving them both what they want. When he’s close, so close it’s blinding, he pulls out.

“What are you—?” Jon starts, craning around to look at him, but he shuts up when he sees Tommy jerking his own cock, condom gone. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, are you gonna—? You should come on me, you should—”

Tommy does, all over his ass and lower back, loving the way it makes Jon shiver as he pants, open-mouthed. Jon reaches for his own cock again, and Tommy doesn’t stop him this time. Instead, he slips two fingers inside him. Jon’s whole body jolts.

“That’s it,” Tommy says, curling his fingers as he fucks them in and out. “Go on, go ahead.”

Jon comes less than a minute later, muffling his cry in Tommy’s pillow and clenching down around Tommy’s fingers. He collapses, after, still besides his back heaving with his breath. There’s probably come all over Tommy’s sheets.

“I’m gonna…” Tommy says, before he gets up, pulling on a pair of clean sweatpants from his drawer before he goes to the bathroom to clean up. He brings back a wet towel and, after a minute of debate, a glass of water.

Jon’s still face down on the bed, his breathing slowed. Tommy reaches out carefully to wipe off Jon’s skin, expecting him to yell or bolt at any second.

Instead, Jon says, “Oh,” all quiet and stays still, letting Tommy clean him up.

When Tommy taps his hip, he rolls over, and Tommy realizes Jon caught at least most of his come in his own hand, saving Tommy’s bed. Tommy wipes the towel over his spent cock, trying to be gentle, even though Jon still winces, before handing over the towel so Jon can wipe his hand off.

“Here,” Tommy says, trading the glass for the towel, and Jon makes an eager sound when he sees the water, draining it in a few gulps.

“Thanks,” Jon says, his voice soft. “I’ll get going in a minute.”

“You don’t have to,” Tommy says. He’s tired, so tired, all of a sudden. It’s not even late. He was going to go swimming tonight, or at least for a run, but Jon not meeting his eyes is even more exhausting than the cardio he just got.

“I will,” Jon says, but he doesn’t budge.

Tommy hums and stays quiet for a long moment before saying, “Why me?”

Jon does him the nicety of not pretending he doesn’t know what Tommy’s asking. He shrugs a little and turns his head to look at Tommy from half-shut eyes. “I don’t have time to go find anyone else, and I’m sure you don’t either since we’re on the same absurd schedule. Plus I know you’re— you know.”

“I know?”

“Safe,” Jon says.

“How could you possibly—?”

Jon fixes him with a look. “You idiot, of course I know. You’re you. You’re still— you. I know you’re safe.”

“You’re not,” Tommy snaps back, trying to hurt him. Jon doesn’t know him, not anymore, and from what Tommy’s heard, he certainly doesn’t know Jon.

“Yeah, I am, asshole. It’s only.” Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I’d let— it’s only you that I’d let. You know.”

It takes Tommy a second to find his voice. “Good. If you’re sleeping with half of SoHo, I deserve to know.”

“SoHo?” Jon balks, pretending to be aghast. “Can’t you at least give me half of Manhattan?”

Tommy laughs, the sound booming out without his permission. He’d forgotten about this Jon, had only seen glimpses of him.

“Yeah, I’ll give you the Upper East Side, pretty boy,” Tommy says indulgently, and Jon smiles, tired and a little smug.

It’s not surprising when he falls asleep given the rough treatment and the full day of classes and rehearsals they’ve had. It’s even less surprising that when Tommy wakes suddenly at 2am, Jon’s already gone.

Tommy tosses and turns for an hour before he gets up. The gym is 24 hours, he might as well go now. It’s Monday morning at least; their one day off. He can always take a nap later, even though he knows he won’t.  
  
  
  
They fuck again on Thursday, somehow making it three days of Tommy’s hands all over Jon’s body in the morning. Three days of watching Jon more in the mirrors than he watches his own steps in the afternoon. Jon grabs his wrist after rehearsal, stopping him in the hall and letting everyone flow by them in a rush to the locker room.

“You should come home with me,” he says. “Come over, I mean. After.”

“After?”

Jon nods and lets him go, ducking around him to get to the showers. He’s waiting for Tommy after, sitting on a bench in a fresh pair of leggings, slippers traded out for white sneakers. He stands without saying anything, leading Tommy to the door. His fleece jacket does nothing to hide his ass, which Tommy tries to not notice. Jon usually wears sweatpants, or even shorts. He doesn’t even — his ass isn’t even anything to look at, really, all things considered, except it’s part of Jon, and Tommy gets to, is going to get to —

He reaches out and grabs it, and Jon squawks, looking wildly around them, but no one else is in the hall. He shoves Tommy, laughing.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Your pants looked soft, wanted to know if they were.”

“Uh huh,” Jon says, holding open the door to outside. “You’re the one who should be wearing these. Why don’t you walk in front?”

“Stop objectifying me, Favreau.”

Jon walks to the curb, arm out to hail a cab. “Fine,” he says, as one pulls up. “But you better objectify the fuck out of me when we get to my place.”

“Fucking nerd,” Tommy responds, making Jon laugh as he rattles his address off to the cabbie.

Jon’s place is nicer than Tommy’s, and certainly bigger, but it looks like he’s only been here a few weeks. Besides a collection of momentos stuck up on the wall over the desk in the living room, there’s only a few bare pieces of art and furniture. Nothing homey, nothing lived-in.

“New place?” Tommy asks, looking at the spotless kitchen.

“What? No, I’ve been here for a few years.”

“It’s… nice,” Tommy ventures.

Jon nods and then shrugs. “I’m barely here anyway, you know? With class and shows and touring, it’s whatever.”

Tommy doesn’t point out Jon was injured for who knows how many months, probably barred from classes and shows and touring. Instead, he grabs Jon again, relishing in the way Jon shivers, turning so his face is tucked against Tommy’s shoulder.

“I’ve got a nice bed, too,” he whispers.

It is a nice bed — big and soft and with a slatted headboard sturdy enough that it doesn’t knock against the wall when Jon holds onto it as Tommy fucks him into the mattress until they’re both hurting from it thanks to rehearsal.

“I’m gonna head out,” Tommy says, after, half-hoping Jon will ask him to stay. Jon just mumbles into the pillow, already mostly asleep. Tommy resists the urge to pull the blanket up over him and dresses as quietly as he can.

He’s standing in the living room, waiting for his phone to let him know where the nearest train stop is, when he sees something familiar. It’s a postcard, stuck to the wall with Jon’s other cards and ticket stubs over the desk. It’s nothing remarkable, just the Chicago skyline at dawn, taken from the east, over Lake Michigan. The corners of it are soft with age, with wear. Like it’s been held a lot, moved city to city.

Tommy knows if he turned it over it would say, _Joffrey’s pretty cool so far. Hard, but cool_ , and, _You should visit over Thanksgiving break, I won’t be able to leave_ , and, small, in the corner because Tommy had been running out of space: _Miss you_.

Tommy’s face feels hot, his eyes prickling. He leaves Jon’s apartment so fast he almost lets the door slam, fast enough that he’s winded by the time he gets to the train. He counts his breaths on the ride home, forcing himself to inhale and exhale in a steady pattern.

Jon’s been pretending, this whole time, like he barely knows Tommy. Almost like he doesn’t remember him. But to know that he’s had that stupid postcard for all this time — for the last fucking decade? That he held onto it and keeps it up where he’ll see it regularly. To know that he kept Tommy’s last words to him. The dumb postcard Tommy sent when Jon stopped answering his calls a month after Tommy left for Chicago. When Tommy was still telling himself Jon was just busy, and then he got so busy himself he stopped trying.

Jon _kept_ it. That has to mean something. It has to, Tommy tells himself as he falls asleep in his own empty bed.  
  
  
  
As Tommy walks out of evening rehearsal the next day, he has to swerve around Jon because Lovett’s got him stopped in the middle of the hall. “You’re going to come with,” Lovett’s saying, jabbing his finger into Jon’s chest. “I’m sick of your dumb excuses.”  
  
Tommy’s almost past them when Lovett yells, “Tommy!” grabbing the back of his sweat-soaked tank. “Tell this idiot he’s coming tonight.”

Tommy feels himself blushing, thinking of the night before like a dumb teenager because of the phrasing. He clears his throat. “Coming where?”

“Fuck, did I not tell you? Get out your phone.” Once Tommy fishes it out of his bag, Lovett rattles off his number. “Text me, include your full name like a civilized adult. We’re going out tonight, and both of you are coming. I’ll text you the details.”

“Going out?” Tommy asks, but Lovett’s already walking away.

Jon rolls his eyes, deliberately exaggerating it for Tommy’s benefit. Tommy’s stomach flutters, happy to be included in the joke. “It’ll be easier to go then to listen to him rant about it later, trust me.”  
  
Tommy nods, that makes sense. “Where are we going?”

The corner of Jon’s mouth ticks up wryly. “Dancing.”

Lovett shoots Tommy a text with the name and address of the place, along with slightly dire warnings about the inconvenient locale and potentially obnoxious patrons. Tommy only has to take one train to get there, though, so it’s not a minus in his book, and he’s well-used to hipsters at this point in his late-twenties.

 _Upsides: spacious dance floor and cheap drinks. Well, relatively on both counts. This is New York after all_ , Lovett sends next. Tommy laughs aloud in his apartment and doesn’t let himself change his shirt again. He’s landed on a crewneck sweatshirt, nothing flashy, but it’s soft and comfortable. If he’s aware that it clings a little too tightly to his pecs and biceps, that’s his business.

He runs into Louis while he’s waiting to get in, the bouncer critically eyeing the ID of a young woman in front of him.

“Tommy!” Louis cries. “Can’t believe Lovett got you to come out.”

“How come?”

Louis shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know, is this your scene?”

“It’s not _not_ my scene,” Tommy lies. He mostly left this life behind when he was younger.

“Well, I’m glad you came out,” Louis says when they finally get inside. “Let’s get a drink before finding these freaks. I want to avoid taking shots as long as possible.”

“Shots?” Tommy asks, but Louis is already walking ahead of him, purposely toward the bar.

Shots are, Tommy finds out, an essential part of the experience of going out with the ABT crew, for reasons beyond his understanding.

“They have a special,” Lovett says, shrugging, downing another tequila shot like it’s water.

“Plus, it’s tradition,” Priyanka adds, smiling as she bites into a lime. Tommy’s shocked Priyanka is even twenty-one, and he barely keeps himself from asking if she used a fake to get in. She’s one of the brightest up-and-comers in the company, and he has no doubt she’ll be in a lead role within the next couple years.

“Fucking dumb tradition,” Jon adds under his breath, but he takes a shot when one is passed to him anyway, his whole face wrinkling up after he downs it. He’s sitting next to Tommy, where he’s been posted most of the night. He’s not even really talking to Tommy, but Tommy can feel his warmth all down his side. Can feel it when Jon shifts and the booth seat underneath them moves with it. Tommy tries not to watch him when he bites into a lime afterward.

“Go on,” Lovett says, scooting a glass to Tommy so aggressively that some of the tequila spills out.

Tommy sighs and picks up the little salt shaker, licking his hand before shaking some out onto it. “Here goes,” he says, and he somehow meets Jon’s eyes right as he’s licking up the salt, and his mouth goes even more dry. Jon watches him as he gulps down the shot and sinks his teeth into the slice of lime in his previously-salted hand.

“Favreau,” Louis says, and it’s clear it’s not the first time he’s said it. Jon starts, turning to look at him. Louis is tilting his head toward the dance floor. “Come on, let’s go.”

In a flurry of movement, Louis, Jon, Priyanka, and at least three-quarters of their party rush for the floor. Lovett stays put, though, along with Tommy and a handful of others.

“Thought you wanted to go out dancing?” Tommy asks.

“I will,” Lovett says, tipping his cheap beer in a little salute to Tommy. “Just might need a couple of these first.”

Tommy nudges his empty shot glass away from him on the sticky stool that serves as a table. “And of these?”

Lovett smiles. “Probably, yeah. You’re not going?”

“I’m not really the ‘dance in public’ type.”

Lovett raises his eyebrows. “Unless it’s on a stage.”

“That’s— come on. You know that’s different.”

Lovett nods and picks at the label on his beer. “Yeah. Yeah, I know it is.”

Most of the group comes back after a few songs, and Jon sits next to Tommy again, but much closer than he was before. His thigh is pressed right into Tommy’s, and Tommy keeps expecting him to apologize and move away, or even move away without saying anything, but he stays right there.

He’s flushed from dancing, smiling wide, eyes bright with a combination of alcohol and exuberance. He even shares a smile with Tommy when he catches him looking.

“When are you gonna get out there, huh?” he asks, his tone teasing, tongue between his teeth as he grins.

Tommy shrugs, hoping it looks casual. “We’ll see, man. It’s not exactly my thing.”

“Oh come on,” Priyanka says, “we all know you have moves. We have to see them every day.”

“Those are Dan’s moves,” Tommy points out.

Louis groans. “That reminds me, no one tell him I was here tonight. He’ll kill me if he knows I was out. And for the love of God, no one snap him!”

“Wait, what?” Tommy has to have misheard. “ _Dan_ has Snapchat?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Favreau just had to get him into it. Didn't you, Jon? All so you could send him your—”

“More shots?” Lovett asks, too loudly, and Tommy realizes he’s keeping a close eye on Jon.

Jon, though, is watching Tommy, face carefully blank. Like he’s waiting for Tommy to, what? Get mad? It’s none of Tommy’s business anyway, what Jon did or didn’t do with Dan. It’s barely any of Tommy’s business what Jon is or isn’t doing now, when he’s not in Tommy’s bed.

Tommy bumps his shoulder lightly against Jon’s and grins at Lovett. “Shots sound great.”

“Cool, cool. It’s your turn to go to the bar, though,” Lovett says.

Tommy groans and shakes his head, but he stands anyway, maneuvering his way around everyone’s knees and the tiny, low tables. He’s halfway to the bar when there’s a hand on his shoulder. He turns, expecting to see someone asking him to dance, but it’s Jon.

“Figured you could use the help carrying.” He hasn’t pulled his hand back.

“Yeah, that’s, uh. Thanks,” Tommy says.

Jon’s better at getting the bartender’s attention, because of course he is. “Come on,” he says, after he orders, “do one with me first. They’ll never know.”

“How bad do you want to feel tomorrow morning?” Tommy asks, and then immediately feels stupid for sounding like such a square.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about that now. I’ll be there, bright and early.”

“You better not puke on me while I’m holding you above my head, jackass,” Tommy warns, but Jon just laughs and passes over a shot glass.

This time, Tommy doesn’t bother to not watch Jon the whole time. He watches Jon lick the salt off his hand, and he watches his throat move as he swallows, and he knows Jon is watching back when Tommy does the same. Jon’s lower lip is wet, and Tommy wants to touch it, wants to press his own lips there and taste it.

Jon gathers as many of the little glasses as he can in his long fingers, leaving the rest for Tommy as he heads back to the table. After they’ve laid out their bounty and everyone’s reaching for one, Jon hands another shot to Tommy, laughing when Tommy make an over exaggerated face of disgust.

Jon gets tugged back to the floor by Priyanka, and Lovett follows, beer in hand. Tommy gets caught up in a conversation with Elijah, their accompanist and, Tommy learns, the social media director for ABT. He’s deep in a discussion about branding when Jon and the rest come back to the table with a fresh round of beers.

When Jon hands Tommy’s over, he leans in closer than he needs to. “Wanna dance?”

Tommy stares at him in shock. He realizes it’s not a joke when Jon doesn’t move away, doesn’t crack up. He clears his throat. “Uh, ye— yeah. Sure.”

He follows Jon to the floor, letting himself be led into the crowd. His heart’s pounding and he takes a gulp of beer, warming up to the feel of the bass he can feel in his bones. Jon turns around to face him when he’s found a slice of open space, throwing his arms around Tommy’s neck like he’s at a middle school dance. Tommy follows suit and settles his hands on Jon’s hips, including the one with the beer, laughing when Jon shivers at the feeling of cold glass at his hip where his button-down has ridden up.

“I don’t know these steps,” Tommy shouts over the music, and Jon throws his head back laughing.

“I bet you can figure it out,” Jon says, stepping closer, and Tommy lets him lead, follows the flow of his movements, even if they’re far clumsier than they are in class. Jon doesn’t have the same gracefulness here, which is oddly reassuring, but he still has rhythm, and he still makes it hard for Tommy to keep up.

Tommy’s not sure when it switches over from keeping their bodies carefully apart to his knee pressed in between Jon’s thighs, but one minute their movements are fairly innocent, and the next Jon is grinding against him, and Tommy doesn’t bother trying to hold back. Jon’s head is dipped against his shoulder, and he can’t help the way he mouths at Jon’s jaw, a little mindless with how good Jon feels, how good he looks under the strobing lights.

“ _Jon_ ,” he says. He means to ask what they’re doing, tell Jon they should stop, but when Jon lifts his head to look at him, his eyes warm and so, so dark, instead what comes out is, “This is a bad idea.”

“I know,” Jon says, and then his lips are on Tommy’s, hot and insistent. Tommy groans and opens his mouth under the onslaught, pulling Jon tighter against him, wishing he had both hands free. One of Jon’s hands is in his hair, tipping his head to get the best angle, and Tommy feels like he’s drowning.

Jon pulls away, smoothing his spare hand over Tommy’s chest, his arm, again and again, like he’s mesmerized. “You’re so much bigger than you used to be,” he says, well, yells into Tommy’s ear.

“Yeah, and?” Tommy asks, and he misses casual by a mile judging from the indulgent smile on Jon’s face.

“Want to get some air?” Jon says, but he’s headed toward the entrance before Tommy can answer, setting down his beer on a random table before strolling out the door.

Tommy looks back to their table, but everyone seems to be gone, either on the dance floor or at the bar, he guesses, so maybe no one will notice if they’re gone, too. He follows Jon into the night. As soon as he’s outside, there’s hands fisted in his shirt, Jon pulling him around the side of the building and into a mercifully empty alley.

“C’mere,” Jon’s saying, into his mouth, kissing him again with that wide-open intensity like he’s been waiting to do it all night.

Tommy doesn’t fight it, just slips his hands below Jon’s shirt, rucking it up so he can feel all the warm skin while he tastes the sound Jon makes when Tommy backs him up against the brick wall. Jon hasn’t stopped touching him, frantic, like he’s trying to get his hands everywhere at once, curling an ankle around the back of one of Tommy’s legs, even, like he’s trying to get closer.

“Do you want to—?” Tommy starts, visions of taking Jon home with him, of getting to have him like this, both of them drunk and sloppy and wanting.

“Jon!”

They startle apart, looking toward the mouth of the alley. It takes only a second before Lovett’s rounding the corner. He stops immediately, surveying the scene. He fixes Tommy with a look before focusing on Jon.

“We should go, I’m hungry,” he says.

Jon looks between them for a second, just a brief flick of his eyes to Tommy’s. When he turns fully to face Lovett, Tommy takes another step back.

Jon nods, as if to himself. To Lovett he says, “We should get pizza.”

“If that place near your apartment with the cheesy bread is still open, absolutely we should,” Lovett says, smiling. “Have a good night, Tommy.”

“Night, Lovett. Jon,” Tommy says, and follows them out onto the street, turning in the opposite direction to catch the train. He can hear their hushed conversation for a few steps, and he’s relieved that it seems to be about acceptable pizza toppings.

Lovett didn’t seem pissed, or at least not too pissed. Not pissed enough that Tommy has to worry about him purposely breaking any of Tommy’s bones the next time he’s in Lovett’s office. Maybe he didn’t see anything, or maybe Jon hasn’t told him anything.

That thought, that Jon hasn’t told Lovett, haunts Tommy as he gets ready for bed and makes him drink three full glasses of water. He can’t decide if it’s the best or worst case scenario. Lovett is Jon’s best friend, surely he’d say something. But what does it mean if he didn’t? He just didn’t see fit to mention that he’s sleeping with his co-lead? The one he’s known for ten years?

Tommy pushes it out of his mind as he remembers the way Jon had felt moving against him on the dance floor, how Jon had tasted so good even after a night’s worth of tequila and beer. How Jon had gotten closer and closer to him all night, had chosen to do that.

Then he remembers being eighteen, Joffrey acceptance clutched in his hand, swaying in toward Jon’s smiling face. Unable to contain his excitement, he’d kissed Jon, just a light brush of lips, only to watch Jon’s smile flicker when Tommy pulled back. Only for Jon to say, _Oh_ , all soft, hand to his own lips, and then not answer Tommy’s calls after he moved away.

But Jon kept the postcard, and Jon kissed him tonight. That matters, Tommy decides. It has to.

**Author's Note:**

> [here on tumblr](http://no-birdstofly.tumblr.com)


End file.
